


Sing Us a Song, Piano Man

by dizzymisslizzie



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzymisslizzie/pseuds/dizzymisslizzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ain’t you a little young t’be servin’ alcohol, little lady?” he drawls questioning, though all the same he watches her grab a glass and fill it to the brim with stiff, sour whiskey. </p>
<p>She doesn’t even flinch at the remark, leaning on the bar counter with one elbow. </p>
<p>“You’d be surprised.” It comes out a little more bitter than she intends it to, and to most     it wouldn’t mean a damn thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Us a Song, Piano Man

_“Sing us a song, Piano Man. Sing us a song tonight"_

Billy Joel’s crooning voice filters through lack-luster speakers on the small radio in the corner of the grimy bar room, the sound tinny and unclear though it’s music, nonetheless. It’s a small little saloon she’s found herself working in, with grey shingles falling off the roof in large chunks into the gravel parking lot. The gravel itself has deteriorated over the years, from what Jo can gather, and turned to a mess of mud with the occasional pebble surfacing here and there. 

That’s something she knows all too well, and something she can see she’s going to have to get reacquainted with when her gaze drops to the wooden floorboards that creak under her feet. Big, muddy boot tracks leave a distinct trail all the way to the bar, where the culprit in question sits with his broad shoulders hunched and dark hair plastered to his head with rain water. His jaw tenses, and he drags a calloused catcher’s mitt of a hand over his face, fingertips catching in the prickly scruff that peppers his jawline. The bar stool that hulking man sits on looks like it’s made for a child in comparison in that passing glance Jo catches, he reminds her a lumberjack. He’s clad in threadbare plaid and worn denim, she notes in silent observation as the water-logged man peels his dirtied camouflage jacket from his body and crosses the room to hang it up. Lazily, the water begins to drain from the well-used and abused article of clothing as it hangs there; a puddle begins to form underneath the crumbling coat-rack that’s nailed to the wall. She could swear she hears a sloshing sound as he walks, as though he really  _is_  soaked to the bone.  

A good bartender doesn’t leave a man waiting for long especially one who looks like someone just shot his puppy. It might not be obvious to the rest of the world, but Jo grew up in a bar. She knows how to spot a bar patron who could use a stiff drink and someone to lend an ear to their troubles. Jo’s lips curl up into a wry smile, and making sure to avoid the trail of mud crossing the middle of the floor she tucks her tattered, torn dishrag into the pocket of her yellowing apron and takes her place behind the bar with a sympathetic smile. 

“Let me guess somethin’ strong?” 

The man’s unruly eyebrows raise in slight surprise, one corner of his mouth ticking up into a skeptical smirk. 

“Ain’t you a little young t’be servin’ alcohol, little lady?” he drawls questioning, though all the same he watches her grab a glass and fill it to the brim with stiff, sour whiskey. 

She doesn’t even flinch at the remark, leaning on the bar counter with one elbow. 

“You’d be surprised.” It comes out a little more bitter than she intends it to, and to most it wouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

If only they knew. 

The gruff, middle-aged man snorts his half-hearted laughter and brings the glass to his lips, knocking back a mouthful without batting an eye. Jo has to admit, it’s pretty damn impressive. She has nothing but respect for a stranger who can handle his liquor. 

“How much d’ I owe ya’?”

“First one’s on the house, darlin’.” With a sympathetic wince, she adds, “You sure look like you could use it.”

“Ain’t that the goddamned truth?” 

There’s a comfortable silence that passes between them, filled by a few radio commercials and a late-night weather report. The clock on the wall with the shattered glass face reads ten o’ clock. 

“Tell me about it.” 

She’s got more than enough time. 


End file.
